


Before Too Long (We'll Be Together)

by Sar_Kalu



Series: Good Omens Tumblr Prompts [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst fic, Aziraphale gets discorporated, But He Gets Better, Crowley needs a hug, Happy Ending, M/M, Sad Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-26 03:13:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19759438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sar_Kalu/pseuds/Sar_Kalu
Summary: After a fight with Crowley, Aziraphale is accidentally discorporated; Crowley doesn't take it well.





	Before Too Long (We'll Be Together)

It happened on a Sunday.

They’d been at the Ritz, Crowley had been about to order more wine, and Aziraphale, more than a little bit tipsy had slipped up.

“You know, dear boy,” the Angel had very nearly slurred through his usually precise diction, “I really am very glad that even though you’re a Demon and all that, that you’re actually really very lovely,”

And Crowley, who hadn’t heard anything of his supposed virtues since the whole Adam business, had whipped around, his mouth a rictus of righteous rage and snarling wrath, “I am not lovely!” The words flung like darts into the suddenly pasty faced Aziraphale.

“I- I- I-” Aziraphale stammered, eyes wide and hands flying up as though to push Crowley away, alarmed by the rapid change in mood within the Demon beside him, “ _I_ _just_ _meant_ -”

“Oh I _know_ what you _meant_ ,” Crowley snarled, the lenses of his glasses flashing in the gleaming lights of the chandelier above their heads, “you _think_ ,” Crowley expounded as he leant forwards, teeth bared sharp and white in a lipless mouth that opened just a little too wide to annunciate the words he was speaking, “that since _The Apocalypse_ I have suddenly been tamed! That I am venomless and more Good than Evil! Don’t you? _Don’t You?!_ ” 

The accusations stung Aziraphale into standing, clearly offended and aware that he’d caused offence, but unwilling to back down in the face of His Aversary’s ire, “well, you’re hardly like _those other Demons_ , Crowley,” Aziraphale hissed out beneath his breath, well aware of the stunned glances they were drawing from the humans around them, in particular the wait staff that were more than familiar with their antics, “you’ve not killed anyone personally and with intent in _over_ three centuries; you do more Miracles than Temptations; and I’ve seen how you are with Adam and his little friends,” Aziraphale drew himself up, self-righteous and unheeding of the little voice in the back of his head that was screaming soundlessly at him to ‘stop, stop, stop, stop, stop!’. “ _You_ ,” Aziraphale pronounced, drawing himself up to his full height, and for a shining moment it was as though his wings had been unleashed, the sight of him was so blinding, “ _LOVE_ _them_!”

Crowley rocketed to his feet in a serpentine move that was still unnaturally stiff with indignation, offence, and above all hurt. You don’t mention the ‘L-word’ around Demons, it’s not a sin and could get a Demon into a _lot_ of trouble if they’re found out, no matter if they’re functionally stepped down from their Role as Adversary on Earth.

Crowley opened his mouth, as if to deny it all but instead his teeth snick closed behind tense, white lips and his eyes burn hell-fire behind his sunglasses and says absolutely nothing. The Demon spun on the ball of his boot and swept from the Ritz in a mountainous fury that staggered his usually flowing stride into an infinitely more choppy, jagged gait. The silence that follows is broken only within Aziraphale’s mind as he feels something deep and dark within him shriek with pain and loss and grief, and he stares after Crowley with eyes that scream their loss to every person around him. The bright shining presence he had worn before dulled like a candle extinguished and the room seemed a little less beautiful, a little less warm, and a little less glittering than before.

With a defeated expression, Aziraphale tried to pay for his bill with the credit card that Crowley had organised for him nearly thirty years ago, only for the waiters to refuse him, still reeling from the hostility that the usually affable gentlemen had show towards each other; and more than one waiter was raising their eyebrows in surprise, because no one, to their mind, had seemed more married than the Angel and the Demon. Aziraphale sloped from the Ritz in a downhearted funk, the remnants of the angel food cake he’d eaten but moments before tasting like ashes in his mouth and he barely has the conscious thought to miracle them away before the low-down taste of internalised disgust and shame within himself is gone once more. 

The walk home is long and dark, though the sun shines brightly overhead and filters green through the leaves of the trees that line the pavement between the Ritz and Soho. As Aziraphale leaves Oxford Circus behind, having thought to drown his sorrows in the little cakes from Marks and Sparks only to find the thought of eating at all to turn his stomach, a shadow falls across he and the business man he had found himself in-step with.

“Giv us ya money,” the rough voice broke through Aziraphale’s self-pitying thoughts and a knife flashed sharp and dangerous beneath his nose, sending him stumbling backwards in shock. “C’mon, guv, hand it over.”

Aziraphale stuttered, even as the gentleman beside him threw his wallet and darted across the street, fear lining his face at the sight of the two thickset youths covered in tattoos and holding a pair of knives each. “Oi!” Was shouted after the businessman but the boy who yelled was stopped by his taller companion, who shook his head at him, “not worf it, mate” the taller boy told his friend, before turning on Aziraphale and gesturing with his knife, “you too, now,” Aziraphale was urged, “quick sharp now.”

“I- I say,” Aziraphale muttered, patting his pockets for his wallet, “it was here a moment a go,” the Angel said, beginning to panic as the knife danced closer to him. While a disincorporation was inconvenient at best and came with _loads_ of paperwork, there was also the matter of Heaven not being best impressed with him at the minute and Aziraphale didn’t really know what to expect if he was to end up back there. 

As Aziraphale gripped his brown leather wallet tightly, a sharp whistle blast sounded behind the two would-be thieves and frightened them badly. The taller boy bent down and snatched up the businessman’s wallet and shouted for his friend to split; the shorter boy was younger, more nervous, and panicked by the sight of a bobby in a flak jacket and heavy boots, didn’t think before he shoved a knife into Aziraphale’s chest. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale whispered as he looked down and saw the long handle of a kitchen knife sticking out of his chest, a bit above his sternum. It didn’t hurt really, Angels aren’t exactly wired for pain responses and it had been a long time since Aziraphale had been stabbed, and thoughtlessly he pulled the blade from his body, a bit surprised by the dark red blood that coated the shiny metal surface. “Oh,” Aziraphale repeated, surprised.

“Easy, mate, hang in there,” a rough voice urged him but Aziraphale’s eyes sank shut, tiredness throttling his normally polite and affable responses until all that was left was the murky blackness of the backs of his eyelids. 

The ground was hard and then it wasn’t. 

no sun warming his skin, 

no smell of the summer leaves, 

no rush of the traffic, 

there was just… 

nothing…

…

..

.

Aziraphale blinked, wincing at the suddenness of the light around him, and came face to face with a very irate Sergeant of Arms. “You again?!” The Angel barked through his thick, iron grey moustache, wild eyebrows drawn down low over his once-straight nose that had definitely been broken at least twice in his lifetime. “I’d heard you were banished,” the Sergeant snapped irritably, cold blue eye sweeping over Aziraphale’s stunned expression, “you’ll be wanting a new body then?”

Aziraphale fluttered his hands, caught off guard by the rapid, spit fire questions, and reached up to straighten his bow tie which was no longer there and felt a flush of embarrassment drift down from the tips of his ears to pool in his cheeks. “I- yes,” Aziraphale startled as the Sergeant shoved his face into Aziraphale’s, breathing like an out of breath rhinoceros, “I do, yes. P-please!” Aziraphale added quickly, his shock not being reason enough to lose his politeness.

The Sergeant huffed a breath that fluttered the edges of his moustache but he cracked open his requisition book all the same and with a certain level of jiggery-pokery, crafted a similar body to the one Aziraphale had just left, though the eyes were a bit bluer, the hair a bit more gold than white, and the body being maybe five years younger and in certainly better condition than his last. 

The next hour or seventy-two were spent being directed to “sign here” and “here” and “here too” before he was unceremoniously stuffed into his new vessel and booted from Heaven once again with the admonishment “to start taking better care of Celestial property, foolish Principality, lest he wish Michael to find out he’d been there.”

Aziraphale landed in an inglorious heap on his bed in his bookshop, absolutely certain that he was a good two centimetres shorter than his last body had been and a good deal broader across the shoulders too. Not enough of a difference to cause trouble, but enough to pass as his last body’s relative, should anyone start asking questions Aziraphale would very much rather he’d not have to answer. 

Aziraphale’s first thought was of course Crowley, who he’d last seen storming from the Ritz in a completely understandable strop; Aziraphale knew better than to call the Demon anything but dastardly, a bit of a bastard, and the Height Of All Evil when he got into one of his little moods.

_But Aziraphale had also never been discorporated before they’d made up_

And the Angel really did have no idea what to expect when he found the Demon again. Crowley was notoriously stubborn (not that Aziraphale was any different, but the Angel liked to pretend that his inherent Virtuousness overruled the minor complications in Ethereal standing that his stubbornness wrought); but before he could do anything to remedy the situation, Aziraphale realised, he would have to fix up the mess his disincorporation had undoubtably caused.

It took a little time, mostly spent hunched over paperwork, for Aziraphale to realise that things… really weren’t as hard as he’d been expecting. Oh sure, his alias as his last body’s younger cousin had raised some eyebrows but his stammering, long complicated answer that involved wa-ay too much familial history (all made up on the spot) soon made the bemused humans tune out with rolled eyes and thinned lips for wasting their time. The rest, however, was too easy. Aziraphale’s previous body’s death certificate, for one, had already been filed, as had the funeral arrangements, and the listing of him, Cousin Fell, to be contacted by the police with a number that… Aziraphale definitely recognised as Crowley’s. 

Apparently, a certain Demon had been busy.

Aziraphale didn’t know why, but he felt rather like blushing once more as he had in Heaven, although not from embarrassment this time… but rather, pleasure? Delight that Crowley had taken the time? Made the effort to smooth his transition back? Aziraphale didn’t know exactly, but he did know that he needed to speak, no, see, the Demon immediately.

It was Wednesday, a week after the disastrous fight with Crowley and Aziraphale no longer felt despondent, but rather he felt rather chipper and excited. The Angel entered the Demon’s flat without knocking, knowing that the Demon would only snip at him for feeling unwelcome “when I bloody well told you to just come in whenever, angel”. The immediate scent of bourbon, whiskey, and fetid wine assailed Aziraphale’s nose like a battering ram. Blinking through shiny eyes that stung from the sheer volume of the smell within Crowley’s large apartment, Aziraphale made his way through the various rooms until he found Crowley languishing on the floor of his plant room.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale breathed, shocked by the condition of his friend, “Crowley? Crowley!” The Angel bustled over to the Demon and peeled the other Being off the floor and hauled him upright, “goodness me, dear boy, whatever have you done?” Aziraphale flustered, twitching dirty clothes straight and searching briefly with a quick glance for Crowley’s dark sunglasses that usually covered the shimmering gold iris’ of his eyes. “Crowley, dear, you need to sober up now,” Aziraphale told his friend with an air of long suffering chiding, “come on, dear one, sober up, please.”

And Crowley, who was beside himself with loss and grief and thus malleable, did as he was bid. The Demon shuddered and shook in the Angel’s hands and eventually swayed into the loose embrace that awaited his sober form. Aziraphale stood with Crowley like that for what felt like both ages and no time at all, the Demon wrapped in his arms.

“I’m back, lo- dear one,” Aziraphale amended his original phrase quickly, knowing better to start throwing the ‘L-word’ (no matter how true) around a Demon. “I’m back.”

Crowley sniffled, or perhaps just sniffed, into Aziraphale’s collar, nose bumping into the exposed flesh of his neck beneath his jaw and above his collarbone. Aziraphale felt heat travel his spine to pool in his chest, right where his heart lay. 

“Asssiraphhhale,” Crowley exhaled into Aziraphale’s neck, “you were…” Crowley choked on the word that followed “ _discorporated_.”

“I know,” Aziraphale soothed, helpless in the face of Crowley’s despair, “I’m- I’m sorry,” he added, unable to say anything else; Aziraphale wasn’t sure there was anything else he _could_ say.

Crowley shuddered once more before lifting his head and bracing his forehead against Aziraphale’s, “I’m sssorry,” the Demon breathed softly, the word dragged out as if to give its meaning more weight, more sincerity. “I should have been there,” the _for you_ unsaid but echoing loudly in the bare space between them. “I should,” Crowley squeeze his eyes shut, lips pressed tightly together, before the words: “should have been there,” were expelled into Aziraphale’s slightly open mouth, their lips centimetres apart.

Aziraphale, pressed as closely as they were, was uncertain but swore that he saw a transparent tear slide down the side of Crowley’s thin face, catching in the faint growth of bristles along his cheek. “I shouldn’t have said-” Aziraphale choked on his words as Crowley slid his face to the side until their cheeks were pressed together, able to feel each others jaws move as they whispered their apologies into each others ears.

“No-o,” Crowley rasped hoarsely, “don’t say it, _don’t_ ,” Crowley’s voice became tight and rough, “don’t _say_ anything.” Crowley shuddered again, “not,” he struggled and Aziraphale ran a slow hand down the Demon’s long back, “not when you were-” Crowley almost stepped back but Aziraphale gripped him tight and refused to let go, “oof, uh, you were- _are_ right,” Crowley corrected himself, his speech rapid and faintly slurred, “about, about everything. I do, you know,” Crowley croaked, hoarse and vulnerable, “l- _l_ \- _l_ -” Crowley choked.

“I know,” Aziraphale hastened to reply, “I know; I-” Aziraphale smiled helpless and sad into Crowley’s cheek, “I’ve _always_ known, dear boy,” and Crowley was not the only one grieving for what was lost, for what could have been, for the rift that was unbridgeable in spite all that had happened since the Apocalypse That Wasn’t.

Crowley slumped forwards again trusting in Aziraphale’s strength, “I missed-” his lips pressed tight again, unable to voice what was already known.

“ _I know_ ,” Aziraphale quirked a smile, touched by Crowley’s rare openness, “I missed you too, dear one.”

Crowley pulled back and stared, open and honest, into Aziraphale’s eyes. A moment of voiceless, wordless affection stretched out between them, strung out like the centuries, the millennia they both had lived, alone and seperate from their seperate sides until they had come to rest, weary and lonely, side by side; until this, this moment, was all they had left. 

Aziraphale blinked and smiled and leant his head forwards, pressing their foreheads together, breathing the same air Crowley did, silent in his affection. “Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed, sagging slightly.

Crowley smiled in return, the corners of his eyes crinkling with adoration, “Aziraphale,” he replied, eyes shining brightly, “I don’t think I ever welcomed you back.”

Aziraphale snorted faintly, “ _no_ , I had to come find you _and_ _then_ sober you up, you old serpent; you didn’t even _wait_ for me to return before getting drunk,” Aziraphale’s words were meant to be plaintive, slightly whining, but instead, were strung tight like a violin string, amusement reverberating because what else was he to expect of his beloved Demon, who he knew… _cared_ far more than Crowley was ever likely to admit and thus naturally devastated at the loss of his Best Friend.

“Well then,” Crowley murmured ever so fondly, “ _welcome home, angel._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Based on crowleyandaziraphaleruinedme's post: Aziraphale lands in trouble right after a fight with Crowley and is hurt or discorporated. Meanwhile Crowley is taking a nap and he wakes up a week later to find Aziraphale gone. He puts two and two together and blames himself for losing Aziraphale  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> Come find me [here](https://sar-kalu.tumblr.com/).  
> .  
> Title comes from Paul Kelly's ["Before Too Long"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LerRV-CGeFU)


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